


Nine Steps From Hell

by PengyChan



Category: 999: Nine Hours Nine Persons Nine Doors - Fandom, Zero Escape (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is ending. A prisoner can only sit in his cell and wait for his life to end with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Steps From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> There are SPOILERS for Virtue's Last Reward (yes, even here in the notes), so if you haven’t played it yet do not read any further.
> 
>  
> 
> This is my take on Hongou's end after 999. It's set a short time after Radical-6 was released and someone had the brilliant idea of trying to solve things by blowing shit up. Remember kids: blowing shit up is usually not a good solution.

_One. Two._

Screams and wails echoed into the dark hallways, bouncing off gray walls and mixing in a cacophony of anguish. Somewhere in the distance there was a bang, yet another of a long series; someone's scream was cut short; in the distance, outside those walls, a car crashed and a child wailed.

The man locked inside the prison cell paid no heed to any of it. It was all too familiar to startle him out of his numbness; he had been hearing those sounds for more time than he cared to try imagining, and it all was nothing but meaningless background white noise now. So he didn't let it break his concentration, and kept walking.

_Three. Four. Five._

The wailing of a siren covered the screams, and the air – already filled with the smell of death, that of the corpses of those who had managed to hang themselves in their cells – carried a sort of smell that the prisoner did not identify, nor he even tried to. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor and took two more steps; in the back of his mind, he cursed the fact there was nothing in his cell that would allow him to end his life like others could. No shoelaces, no sharp objects, no sheets – nothing. Why couldn't he die? Why were they given a privilege he could not have? Why keep on breathing? It was hopeless. It was all hopeless. The world was ending, and everyone was going to die.

_Six. Seven._

Why wait? Why could he not go now? Why did he have to wait for starvation to end him?

The only comfort was that he likely didn't have much time left: he had not eaten in some time, and while he could not tell how long – time flew by so fast, too fast for him follow – he could tell that the prison uniform that had once fit him reasonably well now hung from an emaciated frame, that beneath a graying beard he had no way to shave his skin was tight on his skull as though no muscle was left beneath. He was not always like this – or was he? The more he tried recall anything before a certain point in time, his thoughts got so awfully blurred. What day was it? What month? What year? He did not know.

The prisoner shook his head, and took one more step.

_Eight._

There were crackling noises, and the ever-present screams grew louder and suddenly frantic, but it wasn't that to finally get his attention as much as the smell that was now growing stronger, the smell that he recognized the very same moment he took the last step that was needed to get from the wall of his cell to the bars – it was the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

 _Nine_.

The shadow of a man who had been known as Gentarou Hongou when names still held any meaning stopped in front of the bars and reached to grasp them with claw-like hands. He didn't look ahead to see the corpse of the man in the cell across his hanging from the ceiling – oh, how he envied him – but rather turned to the left, where the smell was coming from.

For a moment he saw nothing but the usual gray hallway and the smoke; then something flickered briefly near the top of the stairs leading there, something bright orange, there for one instant and gone the next. For a few more moments he just stared, not comprehending, then there it was again and the smell of charred flesh filled his nostrils once more as screams began to die down, and he finally _knew_ what it was.

His first reaction was of relief, relief beyond words. So that was it – death was finally coming to claim him as well. All he had to do was to sit, close his eyes, and wait.

Hongou let go of the bars and turned, taking a few steps towards the wall – nine steps, exactly nine steps he needed to reach it, nine nine nine _always nine_ – before sitting on the cold floor, his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and waited.

He could not tell how much time passed; time seemed to be going so awfully fast, too fast for him to be able to catch up, and yet he found himself growing impatient. But it was closer now, it had to be, for smoke was now so thick that he could not longer breathe without coughing. The crackling sound was closer and closer, and the air seemed to be getting hotter by the minute.

Finally, when he felt the heat on his face, Gentarou Hongou opened his eyes to see that Hell had to look like.

Fire was everywhere outside his cell; a bright orange, flickering wall he could not see past. He could smell burning flesh once again, this time closer; with the mind's eye, he could see the fire eating away at the corpse hanging from the ceiling of the cell across his own.

As it would soon devour him.

He was certain it would be a relief.

Still, he did not move to get up and closer to the fire: now that he had allowed himself to sit on the floor, he found that he didn't have the strength to get up or even move. He could only lie there, and stare, and wait.

He did not truly mind. It was the end, that much was certain: the fire would reach into his cell with hungry fingers as it was doing with all the others. So it was alright. He jus needed to wait for a few minutes, just enough for Hell to take those nine steps and claim him, and it would be over. Freedom was so close he could almost taste it.

Gentarou Hongou closed his eyes, and began counting.

_One. Two. Thee. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…_

And that was it, because he no longer seemed able to go past that number. He had to stop there, and could not go further. But it did not matter. He could start over. And over, and over – until the end came.

_One. Two. Thee. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

_One. Two. Thee. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

_Ace. Snake. Santa. Clover. Junpei. June. Seven. Lotus. Kubota._

_One. Two. Thee. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

_One…_

Gentarou Hongou's lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes still shut. Ace. Himself. The man who had started it all. Or not – someone else had started it, after all. He had simply been the one who had taken what others had created and given his own twist to it, making it take a direction no man should, perhaps, have taken.

Morphogenetic Fields. It was supposed to be his cure. It was supposed to allow him to see faces. It was supposed to fix everything, fix all that was broken in him. But now the world was ending, collapsing on itself as _his_ world had before, and to rise from its ashes – if anything ever would – would be a world where everyone would be made of the same genetic code. Everyone would look the same.

But Hongou had already seen that world, had lived in it all his life, and had desperately wanted to escape it. Brother's dream was his nightmare. There would be no place for him in that world. He did not want to be in it. It was pointless. He had lost, he thought, so let the curtain fall and bring that miserable mockery of a life to an end.

_Two._

Snake. Light. How he had hated that young man. Oh, it hadn't always been so. He had wanted him dead, but it was for his own safety, and it was nothing personal. Nothing was personal with anyone back then. But then… then he had lived. He had dared to live when he should be dead. He had dared to live while Nijisaki—

A sharp pain in his chest warned Hongou not to pursue that line of thought, and he let it go. It was easier for him than it would be for most others, probably, for his memory could not summon a face he'd recognize. He would have never thought a day would come when he'd think of it as a blessing. Then again, he had never thought he'd think of death as a blessing either – and yet it now was the only way out.

Who knew, perhaps Nijisaki had thought so as well. Perhaps it had been for the best. And perhaps… perhaps they would meet again. Somehow. Somewhere.

_Three._

Santa. Aoi Kurashiki. To that day, Hongou wondered why hadn't he killed him. He had wanted to, that much had been clear as he dragged him outside the incinerator. He had pressed the gun so hard against his temple that it had left a bruise, and his finger had almost pressed on the trigger more than once. He had wanted to pull it, wanted to hear the gunshot and smell his blood and see his brains smeared on the cold metal floor.

And yet he hadn't. Why? Why hadn't he killed him as Hongou had killed Musashidou? Shooting someone certainly takes less effort than using an axe, and Hongou remembered well the thrill of being about to end someone's life with his own two hands. It had been… exhilarating, and he didn't even truly hate the man. Hardly anyone was worth of his hate. Hardly anyone was worth of that much attention.

But Santa – Aoi Kurashiki – certainly hated _him_. Then… why had he spared him? Did he already know what the world would come to? Did he already know he would someday long for death? Had he known that killing him would be an act of mercy he did not deserve in his eyes, had let him live only to make him suffer? Yes, that could be it. That had to be it. There was no other explanation. None.

_Four._

Clover. He hadn't quite hated her – she was a nobody to him, so no reason for that – but something about her name had grated on his nerves. Hongou could vaguely remember something about a four-leaf clover, something the children he had subjected to the experiment had talked about at some point. They had babbled of hope, faith, love and luck.

A bitter laugh escaped him. Those words had been meaningless to him even before his world crumbled – hope would get him precisely nowhere, as would blind faith, love was a fool's delusion generated by brain chemicals, and there was no such thing as luck – but _now_ they sounded all the world like a mockery.

Hope, faith, love, luck. Hongou gave a gasping noise that could have been an attempt at a mocking laugh and resumed counting.

 _Five_.

Junpei. Hongou shut his eyes tighter, trying to remember.

What had he felt for the boy? What had he thought? He probably had been annoyed by his obnoxious puns, and certainly had wanted to kill him when he had tricked him and revealed everyone who he was… but right now, hell knew how much time later and only minutes away from his much desired death, he could think of nothing. He couldn't even remember what he had worn, couldn't even remember what his voice had sounded like. He was forgetting a lot of things about all of them, after all.

Not that it mattered. None of them mattered. None but one, perhaps.

_Six._

June. Akane Kurashiki. Zero. Oh, how she had tricked him, he thought in dark amusement. She had played the part of the damsel in distress so well she had fooled him. One of his clearest memories of that cursed game was when she had tried to lift him off the floor in the hospital room, pleading him not to fall asleep. He remembered clearly thinking her a fool, thinking it would be so easy taking advantage of her naïveté; how ironic, considering that she had been playing him for fool from the start – and he had fallen for it, doing everything she had expected him to do and more. He had been bested by a girl, bested by the wailing child he had so effortlessly thrown into an incinerator a decade earlier.

He remembered mocking her back then, in the attempt of frightening her and heightening the chances she'd actually tap into the Fields; yet, once he had been beaten at his own game, she had not done the same to him. As her brother tied him up and put him in the trunk, getting little to no resistance from him, she had simply stared at him in silence, without even a sneer. She had not spoken, not a word: she had simply _stared_ , her anonymous face emotionless. Perhaps she saw no need to mock him, for there simply was nothing left for her to say – she had won and he had lost, and that was all that there was to it.

That was final, and she no longer needed to waste time on him. She was free, and he… he was finished.

_Seven._

Seven… Seven. A weak chuckle escaped Hongou. He had forgotten most of those people's voices by then, and had never known their faces, but at least their names he could recall. The detective's, though, still escaped him. Oh, he had heard it when he had testified against him in court… but he was beyond paying attention to anything that happened around him by then, so he had no listened, had not memorized it.

And why should he? He no longer needed to know his identity: even if he could find the will to desire revenge on him for ruining his experiment and then for helping taking him down, he had no means to. But perhaps there would be no need to. Perhaps – no, most likely – he was dead already.

The thought gave him no satisfaction, though: it simply did not matter. If anything, he could envy him… but in a few minutes, he reminded himself, it would be all over for him as well. Finally over.

 _Eight_.

Lotus. Hazuki Kashiwabara. He hadn't known until he was on trial that she was the mother of two of the subjects of his experiment, and he could vaguely remember being surprised by the revelation. That was one of the few memories he had of his trial.

Not that he had thought much about it, maybe because he should have guessed she'd have at least some connection to the experiment or maybe because soon afterwards the prosecutor had started explaining how he had killed Kubota, Nijisaki and Musashidou, taking all his attention from the matter. Still, when he tried to think about her, it was not the trial he thought of – it was how quick her breathing was and how scared her voice sounded when he held her at gunpoint. He had known he could kill her any moment, and he had felt powerful, certain he was about to win that game.

How wrong he had been. He could not win. He never stood a chance.

 _Nine_.

Kubota. A necessary ally to create the Nonary Game, for technological development was needed and his skills were unmatched, and a necessary sacrifice – or so he had thought – in the second Nonary Game, when he had needed to get rid of a dangerous witness and to make sure the game was not a simple joke. He had been easy to fool, almost ridiculously so: he may have been the best in his field, but he was a coward and depended far too much on him, on the CEO. He had always been like that – a follower. And that day he had been terrified, and Hongou's presence must have seemed an anchor to safety to him. He had trusted him, blindly, to the point of breaking the rules while knowing that the consequences could be… all because he had Hongou's _word_ that the rules were different and no harm would come to him. What a fool, Hongou remembered thinking – what a pitiful fool.

Then again, he hadn't been any less of a fool. Kubota had been terrified and ready, even eager, to rely on him. Killing him was not necessary: he would have been his ally regardless, and likely would have never wanted to be apart… so he would have surely been able to recognize Nijisaki, and stop him before he threw him behind Door [3]. And then he would have had _two_ allies in that game. Three, had he not killed Musashidou. He could have won easily with their help. Had he known how things would turn out-

Hongou shook his head. What did it matter? The world would have ended even if he did win that game. Nothing would have changed. Wondering was useless. He should stop. Stop wondering, stop thinking, just sit there and wait to die at long last.

The roaring of the flames was so much closer now, the heat much more intense, almost unbearable. Hongou opened his eyes to face Hell again. The fire was close now; it had invaded most of his cell, crossed most of those nine steps, and burned so close to him he could probably touch it if only he reached out. Just a little more, he thought, one more step, and it would fill his cell and reach him. It would be over.

Hongou smiled at the fire; had anyone been there to witness, they would have said it was a smile belonging to the insane. And as he stared, he could have sworn there was something in the fire, something that reminded him of a human figure. Its outlines were confused and it certainly was an hallucination, but it seemed so real… and looked as though it was reaching for him.

So Death itself had come to take him. How flattering. Hongou did not have the strength to reach back, but his smile widened and he began counting again – but this time it was a countdown.

_Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…_

And then the figure in the fire stepped forward, out of the flames and in front of him, black robe and gas mask unmarred. One gloved hand was still stretched out for him, but Hongou did not see it – all he could stare at was the gas mask, the relief he had felt turning into horror in a heartbeat. He opened his mouth to scream and tried to scramble back, but there was a solid wall behind him and he had no escape, no way out, he was trapped there and-

 _Zero_.

He had not yet managed to force out the scream that threatened to choke him when fire finally covered that one last step and engulfed him, surrounding him like the coils of a snake. He had anticipated that moment, hoped it would end it all… and yet the end did not come, not yet.

Agony did.

It was unending, horrible, infinitely worse that anything he had ever dared to imagine. The scream that left him held horror and pain and madness in equal measure, and hot hair went down his nose and throat, scorching the tissues almost as much as the fire was now devastating his skin and the flesh beneath. The scream that left him was hoarse, inaudible though the fierce crackling of fire. His clothes had caught fire, too, and they wouldn't come off despite his efforts to tear them off himself, and he could not escape the pain in any way. He tried to run away, unable to even think that it was useless, that he was trapped and there was no way out. His legs failed him almost immediately and he fell on the scorching hot floor, howling in pain and trying to roll over even knowing it would be of no help.

A searing pain shot through his skull, and he realized he could not see anything anymore, and that something hot and wet was sliding down his burning face. Still howling in pain, he blindly crawled forward across the floor, across the fire, desperate for a way out, desperate for the pain to end, desperate for help – of any kind, from anyone.

"Zero! _Zero_! ZERO!"

There was no answer to his cries but the roaring and crackling of flames and the wailing of a siren in the distance. And then he met the metal bars, scorching hot, and he could no longer crawl, no longer think, no longer form coherent words: all he could do was screaming wordlessly, clawing at his own face and feeling the burnt flesh coming off his bones.

A minute later, he was not screaming anymore.

* * *

 

The fire kept devouring the prison for days, with no one left having the means to put it out. When it finally died down there was nothing left to burn, the building having collapsed on itself in a pile of debris and ashes.

The human remains in it were never retrieved: there were too many corpses to bury already, and with not nearly enough mass graves most of them stayed to rot in the open. In a way, the survivors had thought, those prisoners had had it better than those whose bodies were decaying on the streets to serve as a snack to the vermin. So let those ruins be their grave, they had thought before going back to their usual business – survival. In the world after the end of the world there was no point in mourning the dead.

Especially those whose names no one even knew.


End file.
